What's Ours
by mychakk
Summary: The first time it has happened Booth took it as a coincidence. The second time, it took him completely by surprise, but it was the third one that made him stop and look more closely. Post Season 8 Finale. BB.


**Title: What's Ours  
****Characters/Pairings: **canon couples  
**Genre: **Hurt/Comfort/Romance  
**Warnings: spoilers for Season 8 Finale  
****Rating: **T  
**Chapters: **1/1  
**Status: **complete

**Disclaimer****: **I don't own Bones nor the characters. Just playing with them

**Summary: **The first time it has happened Booth took it as a coincidence. The second time, it took him completely by surprise, but it was the third one that made him stop and look more closely. Post Season 8 Finale. BB.

**AN**_ I should be working on a very important paper for my studies, but this little ficlet didn't want to leave me alone to the point of overwhelming distraction. So here it is. Maybe now I'll be able to do some actual work. ;)_

_Enjoy!_

**xxx**

**What's Ours**

**xxx**

The first time it has happened Booth took it as a coincidence. Really it was such an understated thing. Nothing out of ordinary; could have happened between two strangers passing each other on the street. Just the back of Brannan's hand mussing slightly the back of his while they walked on the street to interview a witness.

But he and Brennan were not strangers. They shared a home and a life; and a _tension_ that has hit the skies since Pelant's latest attack. Anything seemed as extraordinary now.

And yet it was such an accidental, flimsy occurrence that he barely noticed it.

(But he did. After all, his hand burned for the remaining of the day.)

The second time it has happened, it took him by surprise. They were navigating between each other in the kitchen, Brennan with Christine in her arms, as their baby girl got cranky before her bedtime, and he cleaning up after their shared (mostly in silence) dinner. She was on her way to put Christine down for the night when they almost collided.

And while she was passing him, she rubbed her shoulder against his arm all so delicately, but nevertheless _undeniably_.

He stopped on his track, dirty plates and cups in hands, and turned to look at her retreating back. But she didn't even spare him a glance, not to mention any verbal acknowledgment. He slowly turned to put the dished into the dishwasher, dismissing this little moment as a whim of his imagination.

(Yet the tingling around the spot on his arm spread over his whole body.)

Ultimately, it was the third time that made him stop and look more closely.

They were leaving the J. Edgar Hoover Building, using the elevator to the underground parking lot. He allowed her to pass (like the gentleman Pops had taught him to be) and out of habit he put his hand at the small of her back.

She actually _leaned _into it.

He almost tripped.

But before he could even blink, she was out of the elevator and on her way to the SUV.

She asked about the information he had gathered on their suspect and then shared the team's finding on the victim, but his mind was whirling. Was it all really just his imagination? Was he enduring in some good ole wishful thinking? Or has those things _really_ happened …_purposely_?

So he paid attention.

She still barely talked to him about anything personal (like feelings, thoughts, dreams… and how he missed those talks…), opting rather for the safe topics of their work, cases, and mutual friends. And while she was not exactly cordial during their conversations - more like neutral - her voice… has changed. It has lost its cutting edge somehow. And every other sentence became somehow softer, more understanding, more …loving.

She was always keeping her respectful distance nowadays, too, whenever they were walking alongside each other. A few more inches apart between them then it was before; too many to really perceive them as anything more than just partners. And yet, there were those flimsy, lightly _touches_ as they were passing each other during their morning routine, back of her hand against his, fingers ghosting on his arm, shoulder rubbing slightly against his. And sometimes she even leaned into his hand (a little longer than necessary) as he led her through a door on their way in or out, only to start walking a half step ahead of him, thus preventing him from prolonging those little moments.

She always chose to sit on the other side from him now, too, never beside him. If he sat on the blue sofa in their living room, she'd seat on the beige one. If he chose to seat near the window at the Diner, she'd sit on the other side of the table nearer the aisle. But he noticed that whenever she sat opposite him, she was always turned toward him, her knees pointing in his direction (and her beautiful leg exposed deliciously before his eyes as she crossed them). It was all done so slightly, almost imperceptibly, but he could always read people and he _did_ read her body language now.

It gave him hope.

So one evening, with an inquiring question written on his face, he stared blatantly into her eyes (he noticed she avoided his eyes quite a lot recently), just as she had entered their bedroom after putting Christine to bed.

She stopped mid-step as their eyes locked, him sitting on top of the bedcovers and her standing beside the door to their bedroom, the whole world around them disappearing. Thousand words passed as all feelings finally got to be expressed.

And in that short period of time, it dawned on him that she _knew_. Somehow (on her own? With the help of their friends? Angela's? Sweets'?) she has realized was what going on.

And she didn't hold it against him.

His eyes blurred as his pulse quickened.

How much he loved her.

How much he didn't deserve her.

And as if sensing his thoughts, she just gave him a small tightlipped smile, eyes sparkling at him warmly, then she ducked into their bathroom to get ready for bed.

Forcefully he put on his best poker face and tried to slow down his sudden, heavy breathing. His ears were still ringing and heart beat way too fast. He slipped under the covers and waited. Eventually she came out, and took her side on the bed. They didn't spoke, just like they hardly ever did since that dreadful evening when their happiness turned into despair. And they still lay on their respective sides with a foot-long space between them.

But the silence was not an oppressive one this time. Neither the space between them seemed like miles setting them apart. He felt her shifting around the bed to gain the most comfortable position while still facing away from him. He looked at her, but her head remained turned. Under the covers his hand found hers.

She squeezed his fingers once before withdrawing.

And he smiled.

Pelant might have tried to break them, force them apart, destroy their trust in each other and gain control over them so he could play with them as he pleased. Little did he know.

After all, what was going on between them, in the end, _always_ was theirs.

**xxx**

**End**

**xxx**

**AN **_Really, they are stronger than that tiresome serial killer. Right?_

_Reviews are appreciated. :)_


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